


Eight Candles

by Megii_of_Mysteri_OusStranger



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Attraction, Developing Friendships, Gen, Hanukkah, Holidays, Jewish Holidays, Judaism, Mamihlapinatapei
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 17:07:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10575732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megii_of_Mysteri_OusStranger/pseuds/Megii_of_Mysteri_OusStranger
Summary: Eight glimpses into the week between the obliviation of New York City and his departure for England, where Newt spends Chanukkah with the Goldstien sisters.





	1. Candlelight

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen anyone do this yet, so have at it. I'm not sure if December 7th-14th were the actual days of Chanukkah in 1926--and frankly I haven't taken the time to look because I think that doing a fic that encompasses Chanukkah at all is more important than getting the dates correct.
> 
> I am not Jewish myself, so focus on the holiday is slightly off center so that I may avoid any big, ugly mistakes with my naivety and Google-scrounging. Instead, this fic serves more as a series of ways that Chanukkah brings them together in various ways, rather than a detailed story on the holiday itself. In the meantime, if anything is particularly, glaringly wrong, please point it out and I will remedy the mistake.
> 
> Updates will be every Sunday.

Though they are all feeling overwhelmed and her sister just had her heart broken, Tina forgets the time. It is Queenie who pulls Tina out of her own head and reminds her that the sun is setting.

 Tina jolts into the present, nearly flinging herself across the room to the cedar cabinet and ripping the doors open. Newt, who has been sitting bow-legged in the mint-green chair by the fireplace, looks up in sudden interest. Tina’s throat tightens as her fingers wrap around the stem of the menorah, her knuckles going white. The goblin silver was cool in her hand, firm and familiar.

 By the time she pulls herself back to the present to set the menorah on the table, Queenie has gotten out the candles and Newt is on his feet, holding out a no-maj Banjo lighter in his hand. They each smile weakly at her encouragingly despite the pain she knows they all are going through. She manages to return the gesture and gently sets the menorah on the table.

 It stands tall and nobly, and as Queenie places the first candle, Tina’s dark thoughts are briefly pushed aside by the fond memories of lighting this menorah with their parents and, later, their grandfather.

 Newt isn’t quite sure how to go about lighting the _shammus_ , but the Goldstien sisters gently guide him through it. It’s nice, having Newt here, and even though the heavy atmosphere is bearing down on them, there is still a glimmer of wonder in his eyes that reminds Tina of the first time Queenie lit the menorah—it’s a magic all of its own, entirely independent from the kind they were born with.

 It feels better, if a bit awkward, to use a lighter. In the aftermath of Credence’s murder, Tina doesn’t feel up to using her wand. The image of her fellow aurors’ spells ripping the obscurus apart is too fresh in her mind, her grief too raw.

 Queenie takes hold of the _shammus_ candle in her right hand and takes ahold of Newt’s hand with her left. The magizoologist looks down at her elegant fingers, eyebrows raised. He purses his lips and glances at Tina from beneath his fringe, and offers her his left palm. The gesture makes her tear up.

 Queenie begins to say the blessings over the Candles, her voice melodic, Tina joining soon after.

 Newt’s hand is calloused, but warm, and wraps around her fingers oh so gently. She remembers how strong that gentle hand could be, how securely it gripped her when she leapt from the Death Potion and through the underbelly of the Woolworth building.

 Yet one of her hands feels empty. The last time they were at this table, Jacob had been with them.

 Queenie’s voice breaks. Tina backpedals quickly, but the thought has already done its damage. Tina pushes through and continues the second blessing, the Blessing for the Chanukkah Miracle, even as Queenie’s chin dimples and quivers and tears overflow down her cheeks.

 There are so many miracles that Tina is grateful for, in this moment. The miracle that once was Credence Barebone; the miracle that Gellert Grindelwald was exposed; Newt’s niffler getting loose and wreaking havoc in the bank had been a masked miracle; and, of course, Jacob Kowalski, for none of them would be standing here, together, without him.

 Tina finds that she is too choked up to finish the final blessing.

 Newt sniffs wetly and she looks up to see tears in his eyes, golden in the candlelight. It makes her breath catch in a way that has nothing to do with her wild, aggrieved emotions.

 She is aware that she and Queenie have been speaking Yiddish for the blessings and that Newt most likely has no idea what has been said. There is no reason that he should know the proper ceremony. Perhaps he does, though. Perhaps he was present for a Chanukkah somewhere during his year in the field, studying creatures, because he clears his throat, wets his lips, and begins reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

 He is obviously unpracticed. It wouldn’t surprise Tina if Newt hadn’t set foot in a holy building since childhood. His recitation of the Lord’s Prayer is choppy. He has to periodically pause and drag the next phrase out of the depth of memory with some effort. She is not familiar with the Lord’s Prayer herself, but Tina is quite sure he makes up a line or two.

 It’s not the _shehecheyanu_ , but it’s similar, and the gesture is so _sincere_ and tender that Tina can feel her heart breaking in her chest. She lights the first candle, her voice still coiled like an occamy in her throat. She squeezes Newt’s hand, hard, and he squeezes her back until her knucklebones grind together. The pain is grounding. She welcomes the crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ronson lighter was the first fully automatic lighter, came into production in the mid 1920's (1926-1928), and was commonly called the "Banjo" lighter due to its unique shape. It ran on petrol. Why does Newt have one? Well, it is never a bad idea to have backup survival methods when running around the wilds of the world.
> 
> The details feel a bit choppy and raw, but ah well, I'm happy.


	2. Latkes and Sufganiyah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to have dessert before dinner.

 Tina’s afternoon drags. Though President Piquery has had to be twice as harsh as any president before her (the burdens of being the first female president), she has been generous enough to grant the Goldstien sisters a few days off. However, they all need to go in and submit statements about the recent events of the last three days—for Tina, the sooner the better. She wants to do it while her memories are still fresh, even if they’re painful. Queenie packs her a sack lunch of unleavened grilled cheese sandwiches with pesto and French-cut potato fries.

 She isn’t sure what her younger sister got up for the better part of the afternoon, but Tina feels emotionally exhausted. She’d requested to be involved in the investigative team searching for Graves, but Piquery feels that the eldest Goldstein sister’s emotions were still running high and the president did not anyone’s personal feelings to risk the investigation—moreover, she hadn’t been returned to her position as an auror yet.

 Tina’s heart sank into her stomach at the statement, morosely wondering why she had thought her part in everything would reverse her demotion in the first place. The thought of coming back to work in a few days time and just being assigned to that sorry desk in the Wand Permit Department left her feeling hollow.

 She hangs her hat up as soon as she gets home and tosses her coat on the loveseat in a careless gesture reserved for her most frustrating days. Newt is seated at the table, watching Pickett exploring the cutlery while experimentally eating a piece of raw potato. Queenie is finishing up the last of the latkes, applesauce, and _sufganiyah_. Her wand-hand in mid-air, Queenie looks over as Tina sighs from her place on the couch and comes to a decision.

 “Dessert before dinner, I think.” She states, drawing Newt’s surprise. She winks at him over her shoulder, her smile a bit weak. “Life is too short to always save the sweets for last; you never know if you might die between dinner and dessert.”

 That pulls a smile from Tina’s mouth. It had been a common excuse their father gave their mother whenever he was caught giving them treats to soothe scraped knees and bumped heads and upset stomachs.

 Queenie’s _sufganiyah_ melts decadently in her mouth, the powdered sugar giving way to crisp dough and sweet, strawberry jam. The tension in Tina’s shoulders uncoils and she relaxes into the cushions with a hum of contentment.

 “All right, all right, have it your way,” Newts concedes, tearing off a tiny chuck of doughnut and jam for the bowtruckle to taste. Pickett chirps brightly, and Newt, too, is compelled to smile. “He compliments the chef.”

 “Thanks,” Queenie says quietly, “Do you think Jacob would’ve liked ‘em?”

 Tina’s heart goes out to her little sister and she leans forward earnestly, resting her elbows on her knees. “Mr. Kowalski told us that your cooking was the best meal he’d ever tasted, Queenie. He’d have loved it.” Newt’s eyes connect with Tina’s. The bowtruckle is pulling on his sleeve, begging for seconds, but he hasn’t yet noticed. “Though maybe not as much as Pickett.”

 Queenie laughs.


	3. Dreidel and Cocoa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our three friends bond over a classic Chanukkah game. Queenie is a sore loser. Tina enjoys a challenge. Newt knows what ants taste like.

 Newt, as it turns out, plays a mean game of driedel. Queenie is utterly scandalized that he keeps winning the pot, and is even more stricken when he redistributes the foil coins between them once she runs out of chocolate gelt to gamble with.

 “Just you wait, Newt Scamander; I’ve got all night to beat you!” She declares, sending the top spinning with a flourish.

 He chuckles through a lopsided smile. “We’ll see about that.”

 The Goldstien sisters have been slowly eating their way through their winnings, peeling golden foil away from chocolates shaped like coins, one by one. So, the pot of gelt has slowly been diminishing as the evening wears on, but Newt has yet to unwrap even a single piece of chocolate. As if Queenie could be any more aghast.

 “I’ve nothing against chocolate,” he explains, “but once you’ve had Spanish chocolate, Hershey’s doesn’t really compare. The best chocolate I’ve ever had was a traditional cuppa in Guatemala, actually.”

 “Spanish chocolate?”

 The Goldstien sisters share a _look_. Queenie grins.

 “You think so?”

 Newt glances between them, suddenly curious.

 Tina shrugs. “Well, _I_ would, even if Newt might not.”

 “I might not what?”

 Queenie stands and makes for the stove. “Tina’s giving you a chance to redeem yourself for being impartial to chocolate!” She sings.

 “You skipped out on the last cup of cocoa we made you, remember?”

 Newt has the good sense to blush sheepishly.

 “Besides, you have Queenie beat—”

 “He does _not_!”

 “—but I want to see how well you hold up in a duel.”

 Tina thinks she has his technique pinned. Plenty of it has to do with a quick wrist and nimble digits, lightning-fast snaps of his fingers that come from having been bitten by small creatures too many times. He’s very precise. However, there is an irregular scratch in the wood of the table that he seems to be using to his advantage. It does one of two things: it either grounds the top and slows it, or makes it hop. What Tina hasn’t figured out is if he can make the dreidel skip or slow down intentionally, or if the variation is as much of a gamble as getting the top to fall on its _shin_ and _gimmel_ sides.

 Privately, she is enraptured by how his freckles seem as copper as new pennies under the light of the menorah.

 “Are there going to be any proper stakes in this duel?”

 She pauses and pulls her bottom lip into her mouth thoughtfully. “Dishes. The loser is on dish duty tonight.”

 “I’ll take that bet.” He flings the dreidel and their duel begins.

_Shin, nun, he_ , and _gimmel_ toss and turn, showing their faces in infinite variations. Newt is distracted by Queenie’s humming at the stove, but Tina knows the recipe by heart: brown butter and spices, cream, sugar, bitter chocolate. Newt’s dreidel spinning has an edge on her, but just barely. She keeps her tricks close to her chest, like her heart, but the longer she plays against Newt, the more those tricks reveal themselves, eventually manifesting as a discreet furrow between dark brows.

 Striped yellow mugs float over their heads to settle on the table. Tina doesn’t wait for the cocoa to cool, scalding her tongue with her eagerness. The sweetness and spice of the cocoa is worth the burnt lips and she sighs contentedly. Newt approaches with more caution, eyeing its consistency and swirling the liquid in its cup, bringing it tentatively to his nose to smell cloves, cinnamon, cayenne, and star anise (just a few of the more potent spices) before cooling the surface with his breath and tasting.

 “If we were going to poison you, Newt, we would have done it the first night you had dinner with us.” Tina comments dryly.

 Queenie looks more amused than anything.

 “It’s our grandfather’s recipe.” The young auror explains at Newt’s unspoken surprise.

 “You mean our great-grandmother’s recipe.” Her sister corrects.

 “Well, _sure_ , but we had to reconstruct it from scratch with a list of ingredients and no measurements! We’ll never know for sure if we got it completely right.”

 “Gran’papa seemed to think so.”

 “Gramps is almost a hundred years old, Queenie.” Tina quips.

 A long, tiny, green finger stretches out from behind Newt’s collar curiously.

 “No, Pickett, you know you’re lactose intolerant.”

 The flaxen haired Goldstien sister resettles herself at the table, sliding a spoonful of strawberry jam towards the magizoologist.

 “I’m never going to be able to convince him to eat properly again if you keep spoiling him,” Newt comments as the bowtruckle climbs down onto the table.

 “Pickett saved your life; I think the sweet little string bean deserves to be spoiled!”

 Said so-called string bean trills in agreement.

 Newt hasn’t landed on _gimmel_ in a while and Tina wonders if it’s intentional or not. She lands on _shin_ and adds her last bit of candy to the pile. Newt spins another _shin_ and adds his remaining chocolate coin. The last of their gelt is in the pot.

 “Think your niffler would be jealous?” Tina wonders aloud, observing how the pile of foil-wrapped candy resembles a rather shiny pile of treasure.

 Newt’s answer is immediate. “Absolutely. He robbed a spice stall that sold chocolate covered ants, once, in Brazil; it is the only occasion where I’ve seen him bypass something shiny in favor of something tasty. He’ll be very cross when he smells cocoa on me.”

 “Ants?” Queenie crinkles her nose.

 “Each species tastes a little different, but they’re very tart and acidic, not unlike lemons, actually. North America has a species whose favor is supposedly similar to strawberries. Not so bad as long as you don’t let them bite your tongue.”

 The younger sister sticks her tongue out in disgust and pours her cocoa down her throat to drive out the imaginary taste.

 Tina sends the dreidel twirling, snapping her wrist at the last moment to send out her best technique. The top makes a smooth half circle before it strikes the rut in the wood and leaps into the air. It skitters and clatters to a stop.

_Gimmel_.

 She can’t help but smile cheekily, “Looks like it’s your turn to do the dishes, Mr. Scamander.” 

 “So it is,” He says, leaning back in his chair. He raises the cup of cocoa into the air as a toast before taking a hearty dreg. “Cheers to a good game of tops and to the ladies who have given me the second-best chocolate I’ve ever had.”

 “Don’t worry, he’s lying,” Queenie mock-whispers to her sister conspiringly, “It’s the best.”

 Newt snorts at her. “I’m still better than you at tops.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To learn more about the Goldstien's cocoa recipe, keep an eye out for the next chapter of Grandpapa Owl--to be posted on Thursday.


	4. Blue and White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tina receives an invitation. Newt is invited along, but it's important that he dresses the part.

 Queenie spends her afternoon submitting her statement about the Obscurus Event, Newt’s creatures, and Jacob Kowalski at the Woolworth Building. Tina hires a bike messenger to take a note to their cousin in Lower East Manhattan. Dov had sent them a package of Chanukkah cookies and invited the sisters to a community gathering later in the holiday—they didn’t always attend, as the Goldstien sisters are less orthodox than their cousins and Chanukkah isn’t a Biblical holiday to begin with, but Tina feels that they both could benefit from the support of their extended family and community right now.

 Queenie will look as ravishing in powder blue and silver as she does in pink. Tina, always a bit more conservative in her wardrobe choices, favors one of her mother’s old, Victorian, milk white blouses and sets out a skirt in a light shade of navy blue.

 Newt finishes his morning rounds with his creatures sometime between 10 and 11 and pops out of his case with a sharp knock to announce his presence. He hears her rummaging around in the bedroom and calls her name.

 Tina’s response is muffled, her tongue impeded by a mouthful of rugelach. There’s a smear of apricot jam on her upper lip. Unlike the mustard moustache she sported when they first met Tina catches the jam when she licks her upper lip, swipes it off with her thumb, then sticks the digit artlessly in her mouth.

 “Sorry,” she says, extending a blue and white box toward him, “Help yourself. They’re the best in Manhattan.”

 Newt’s eyes dart between the box and the stockings neatly folding themselves upon the skirt, lain out on her bed. The skirt has thin, white lines along its pleated trim, American sailor style. “Special occasion?” he inquires, breaking off a spur of a blue sugar cookie shaped like the Star of David with his teeth.

 She nods sharply. “We’ve got some cousins who’ve invited us to a community gathering. They’re more orthodox, so it’s just polite to dress a little more traditionally.”

 “Oh,”

 Tina pauses and appraises him with her eyes. “Would you like to come? It won’t be as uptight as it sounds. We’re just expected to dress and eat the part, not necessarily play it.”

 Newt’s bronze eyebrows rise and he folds his hands over the cookie, a flattered smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. “I’d be delighted.”

 Tina’s heart lifts and she smiles broadly. “Good.”

 “I’ll whip up something appropriate to wear. Transfiguration was never my forte, though. When is the party?”

 “Oh, um…”

 “Yes?”

 “Transfiguring clothes, well, there’s no rule _against_ it, but it is strongly frowned upon.”

 His mouth and brows crumple in distress. “A faux pas. Right.”

 Newt’s coat will do fine, blue as it is, but his wheat-yellow vest doesn’t fit the occasion, so Tina has him stand in her room while she rummages through her cedar chest for something suitable. She digs out an off-white vest trimmed in blue, blossoming forget-me-nots on the pocket and a matching bowtie. She pauses, running her fingers across the fine embroidery fondly.

 Fyvel and Rebecca Goldstien had worn their wedding clothes every anniversary, and Tina had bright memories of playing ring-bearer or flower-girl reenactments during her childhood, of messily piping icing on a small cake every June. Getting chocolate fingerprints and kisses on her parents’ pristine wedding clothes, painting the white roses on her mother’s lace veil red and pink so that they looked more real (to a child’s eyes, at least).

 She turns to Newt and holds the vest up to his chest, sizing it up.

 “’Kay, I this should fit just fine, though we may need to take the waist in a little. You’re thinner than my father was.”

 His eyes go wide as saucers and he ducks his head. “Your father’s? Tina, I can’t possibly…”

 “Newt, please let me do this for you. You’re our guest. Besides, these clothes haven’t been worn in over fifteen years; I’d like to see them put to good use for once.” She folds up the vest neatly and drapes it over his forearm, her expression earnest.

 Moved by her sincerity, Newt turns the partially eaten cookie over and over in his hands, and changes the subject. “Do you think Jacob’s pastries could compete with your cousin?”

 “Do you?”

 “His patzki were most impressive.”

 “I hope he gets his loan for his bakery someday. I’d like to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little fun foreshadowing their future marriage.
> 
> Plus a hint of the Goldstien family, which will be addressed in future chapters (both here and in Gran'papa Owl). Orthodox Goldstien family approaching because I haven't seen anyone do it yet and I love doing research for my stories.
> 
> Blue and white are traditional Jewish colors. Rugelach is a traditional flaky pastry that looks similar to a croissant and is rolled up with jam, and cream cheese sugar cookies are also standard.


	5. Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Goldstein sisters sing for an animal audience again. So does Newt.

Much to their surprise, the girls find themselves singing for an audience of animals for the second time. Jacob’s absence is sorely felt by all three of them, but time forcibly moves on.

 Besides, this time they’re doing it _drunk_.

 There may be a prohibition going on, but really everyone has their ways of getting their hands on liquor. They’re not roaring drunk (though considering Newt, Tina thinks that he might actually indulge them with a mimicry of a nundu if she asked), just drunk enough to take off the edge of their grief.

 Between the bright moments that Chanukkah brings them, Tina mourns Credence desperately. Newt does as well, but in a different way. Tina mourns the person, Queenie the mind, and Newt the obscurus.

 Newt’s creatures were all fed and settled before the three humans started drinking, of course—it wouldn’t do to wander into a hungry beast while inebriated, no matter how tame. Whatever their grievances, they’re not drinking to numb each other—they’re celebrating.

 They’ve situated themselves in the now empty thunderbird habitat with an eight-dollar quart of North Carolina Shimmering Moonshine thinned and sweetened with lemonade—it’s an expensive luxury the sisters can barely bring themselves to indulge in, but Tina was just reinstated as an auror and they’re in the good company of a friendly magizoologist and it’s Chanukkah. Today is special.

 Newt had found Frank during his Egypt travels. A rural region of Upper Egypt in the south had suffered strange weather that brutalized their crops in the wake of the revolution in 1919. The leader of the region, a governor of sorts, sought an unusual solution to an unusual disaster: Frank. Thunderbirds could create and dissipate thunderstorms.

 To someone with a rudimentary knowledge of magical beasts, it wasn’t an unreasonable solution to come to, really. However, no rescue plan ever was so simple as it seemed and neither were beasts, particularly XXXXX class magical eagles that could influence the weather. So, of course, nothing had gone according to plan for the man or his citizens. Frank wasn’t about to comply,

 “So, the punished him into submission.” Newt’s voice cracked when he said this.

 Tina felt her heart clench with dread. She had to swallow the lump in her throat before she could speak. “W-what did they do?”

 Newt had to toss back another drink of shimmering moonshine before he could go on. His jaw clenched and his eyes raw. Queenie, reading his thoughts, grimaced and took a swig from the bottle. He lifted his hand up to his nose and dragged his finger down the length of it.

 “They broke the front half of his beak off and starved him.”

 And that was the state that Newt found him in.

 Newt doesn’t explain, exactly, how Frank came to be in his possession. Tina supposes some things are better left unsaid—particularly ones that involve breaking the law (not that Tina would snitch on him ever, _ever_ again).

 Rehabilitating Frank took months upon months and it was complicated by Frank’s inability to eat on his own. Frank would keep Newt at bay until he became too weak to resist having mashed guts poured down his throat—Newt could not use a potion, as there was no telling how the creature’s physiology would react to medicines meant for humans.

 So, when Newt attached the prosthetic he designed, Frank was painfully awake, and painfully too weak to put up much of a fight. Frank’s fragile trust in Newt had almost been broken by it, but Thunderbirds are incredibly intelligent beasts and the gift of a fully functional beak was not easily ignored. After that, Frank’s recovery began in earnest.

 “I didn’t know Thunderbirds lived in Arizona,” Queenie says, her cheeks reddened by alcohol, “We didn’t have much of a Magical Creatures class in school, but Thunderbird is one of the school houses, so they were part of the curriculum.”

 “Yes,” Newt concedes, “They’re more of a northernly bird—found in the Pacific Northwest, New England, and around the Great Lakes. They’re less common in Arizona, but the season is off, you see. If I had come in summer,” he pauses and puts his thumb and forefinger together thoughtfully, his thin mouth pursed, “If I may—what is the name of that northern Midwestern state—It sounds similar to Arizona, but it’s not.”

 Tina’s thoughts spin for a moment, her thoughts made softer and slower by liquor. “Ah… Minnesota?”

 “That’s the one, yes. If I had arrived in summer, I would have released Frank in Minnesota. Instead, we are in the middle of December and Arizona was as close to Mexico as I could manage.” Frank has left a single, golden feather behind, and Newt twirls it idly between his palms. It’s so big it looks like it could serve as the paddle for a canoe. “Thunderbirds are migratory. They spend our winter months soaking up the summer sun in the South American Andes. Unfortunately I found either crossing the Pacific or traversing the Amazon Rainforest to be too great a task to accomplish alone in a short frame of time.

 “So, here I am instead. Celebrating Chanukkah.” He looks up at Tina through half-tamed copper curls. “With you.”

 Tina sips her moonshine.

 “Chanukkah, _oh, Chanukkah_!” Queenie sings, slightly off key, but unfailingly sweetly.

_“Come light the menorah_

_“Let’s have a party_

_“We’ll all dance the hora!”_

 Tina chuckles as her favorite-only sibling wobbles to her feet, uncaringly tearing holes into the soles of her stockings, as she slowly and half-drunkenly dances the hora around the enclosure.

_“Gather ‘round the table, we’ll give you a treat,_

_“A driedel to play with and latkes to eat.”_

 Tina encourages Newt to rhythmically clap along.

“ _And while we are playing_

_“The candles are burning low_

_“One for each night, they shed a sweet light_

_“To remind us of days long ago.”_

 There is a murmur of approving noises from the nocturnal animals in the case as Queenie’s singing rolls to a stop, chirping, cooing, and purring. Tina and Newt applaud softly.

 “Do you sing, Newt?” Tina asks, suddenly curious.

 He coughs into his drink, surprised. Moonshine sloshes out of the glass to drip over his fingers. “Me?” He awkwardly shakes a yellow handkerchief out of his pocket with his free hand.

 “Oh, yes!” Queenie is immediately on board. “Sing for us, Newt!”

 He raises one long finger and points it skyward, his eyes on the earth. “I am not _nearly_ drunk enough to sing for humans.”

 Tine rests her hand on her chin and gases at him imploringly. “I’ll bet you’re a decent singer; animals are vocal. I bet you can whistle the birds down from the sky to sit on your shoulder.”

 His ears redden. “As a matter of fact…”

 Queenie’s grin is akin to a Cheshire. “Ohh, I’m not letting you out of this now. You won dreidel—consider this my vengeance!”

 Newt chuckles and stands, tossing his drink back and brushing his hands off on his thighs. “All right, you win this time—but if I have to sing, my best girl is going to be in the audience.”

 Catching a glimpse of his mind’s eye, Queenie goes wide-eyed and pale. His smile is utterly wicked. “Oh Tituba, you can’t be serious!”

 Newt’s best girl is the Runespoor.

 Iris, Isis, and Cecil is the largest Runespoor ever discovered and thus the oldest as well, though she has yet to be officially recorded. Newt has her estimated at some two hundred years or so, judging from her immense size. Runespoors typically only grow to be six or seven feet long—Iris, Isis, and Cecil is well over sixty feet in length.

 “I’m not sure we’re sober enough to do this. Or _drunk_ enough.” Tina says drily. Her voice echoes softly in the cavern, bouncing off the creamy stalagtites high overhead.

 “To be honest with you, I wasn’t brave enough to do this without a bit of inebriation when I first charmed her myself,” He turns his back to the witches and faces the depths of the cavern. “But I’ve yet to meet a creature that doesn’t enjoy a bit of music.”

 Newt pulls a simple reed flute out of his waistcoat pocket. It’s well worn and when he places it to his lips, a series of lifting, playful notes taking wing into the air; he plays it like a master snake charmer. Tina thinks about how he has obviously charmed far more than the birds from the sky.

 “ _Oh_ ,” Queenie whispers softly, “He’s playing her a _love song_.”

 The smaller Runespoor, Sean, Seth, and Sasha, dips his three heads into view curiously, tasting the air—he loiters closer to the cave mouth, ever the hungry, growing adolescent. Unlike his mother, he is mischievously active. Iris, Isis, and Cecil spends the majority of her time sleeping. She’s old, old, _old_ and, like most large snakes, only eats a couple of times per year. It’s just as well; she’s terrifying, no matter how fond of Newt she may be. Tina is quite anxious about the idea of deliberately waking her up. Queenie, more in tune with Newt’s confidence, is a bit less antsy.

 The music Newt plays with the reed flute is surprisingly, distinctly Hindi. His voice cannot compare to Billy Murray’s high notes, but he is a pleasant enough falsetto. It’s not surprising to hear him speak in another language once he begins to sing, for all of his travels, it makes sense for Newt to be multilingual at some degree, but his Punjabi is shockingly fluid and natural. There is no way Newt picked up that language within a few months unless he is a linguistics genius.

 While the girls only asked him to sing, once Iris, Isis, and Cecil sway cheerfully, but frighteningly into view, Newt also begins to dance—East Indian music is meant to be danced to, of course, but the girls have never seen it and rarely heard such music. He’s adopted the feminine role of the song, the hard-to-get beauty teasing the infatuated suitor—in this case, the Runespoor. Newt rolls his hips girlishly, the motion smooth despite his crooked leg, and Tina blushes furiously, her breath catching. The enormous Runespoor sways in kind, elegant for all of her girth.

 Newt and the Runespoor begin to dance in earnest then in a beautiful coupling (quadrupling?), and though Iris, Isis, and Cecil take up the majority of the view, it is Newt’s motions that Tina cannot take her eyes off of.

 Sweet Sarah Good, she’d had no idea men could move so effeminately.

 “Who’d’a thought you and I would end up being keen on a couple’a fellas, huh, Teenie?” Queenie says softly.

  _Just peachy keen._ Tina’s throat has a knot in it.

 The rotation and undulation of Newt’s arms and hips mimics not only the Runespoor’s motions, but also those of a woman. Tina hasn’t felt this enchanted by a man since her grandfather sold his owl business to Abraham Pole in 1917. She’d like to brush it off on the fact that she hadn’t taken a lady to dinner since before her demotion, but the excuse feels hollow.

 Iris, Isis, and Cecil is incredibly graceful, swaying in a non-existent breeze, braiding and unbraiding around herself and forming lovely shapes with her three necks. Four of her six steel-gray eyes are closed in delight. Her rough, spiny, red dorsal scales give her a deceptively soft, feathered appearance. Tina supposes that the massive serpent enjoys dancing in part because of her captivity; snake charming is probably the most exercise she gets. It is uncertain of Newt will ever reintroduce her into the wild; her great size makes her as much of a target as she is a threat and her prickly hide is riddled with all sorts of mysterious scars as a testament to that. Dancing the role of enamored suitor, she corrals Newt around with her great heads, hunting him down and cornering him only to have him slip away temptingly.

 Newt’s song slowly comes to a heart-rendering end, the last notes of his voice and flute lingering sweetly in the damp cavern air.

 “Where didja learn that, Newt? India?” Queenie wonders aloud.

 “Actually, I learned from my mother. But now that we’ve all bothered to wake up Iris, Isis, and Cecil, it’s your turn to sing for her.”

 “Us?!”

 “She only gets up to feed every four months or so—so we might as well keep her entertained while she’s up! She’d be most cross with me if we only danced with her the once.”

 Tina can’t read the Runespoor’s facial expressions; they’re too alien, too strange for her to decipher. Watching Iris, Isis, and Cecil dance is one thing, dancing _with_ her is quite another. Yet Newt is looking at them expectantly and Tina wants to show him up. She takes a steeling breath and throws back the bottle of moonshine for liquid courage. She grabs Queenie’s hand before she can lose her nerve and yanks her sister into her arms, her hand at Queenie’s slender waist and the other knotting their fingers together.

  _S’vivon!_

 Queenie grins.

 With the older sibling leading, the Goldstien girls walk through the steps of the _S’vivon_ dance, and simple box-step with little arm movement. Queenie’s festive voice leaps into the air.

_“S’vivon sov sov sov,_

_“Chanukkah hu chag tov!_

_“Chanukkah hu chag tov,_

_“S’vivon, sov sov sov!”_

 Tina’s steps and Queenie’s voice take on a tone that is a little less traditional and a little more jazz-inspired. Though the hair on her neck is standing on end due to the triplet stare of what may be the largest living snake in the world, despite the tickle in the back of her head that tells her that Iris, Isis, and Cecil could swallow them in one snap if she so pleased—Tina finds a smile growing on her face. Her voice joins Queenie’s. It’s Chanukkah—what room in her heart does she have for fear at a time like this?

 The Runespoor seems to be enjoying the melody, if her swaying and attention is any indication. Tina can’t bring herself to look for Newt’s expression.

“ _Chag simcha hu-la-am_

_“Nes gadol ha ya sham_

_“Nes gadol ha ya sham_

_“Chag simcha hu-la-am!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mating dances? Mating dances.
> 
> Also, like I mentioned from Tina’s perspective, Newt has a lot of creatures confined in his case and they need exercise—it’s why they are so eager to escape. However much space they may have in their respective habitats, it can’t compare to how much space they would have in the wild. I imagine a fair amount of Newt’s daily routine is eaten up by the simple act of playing with them in order to burn off their energy and keep them from getting into trouble (I have enough trouble trying to do this babysitting a single cat in a studio apartment).
> 
> A note on Frank the Thunderbird--There is a distinct line on his beak in the film, suggesting a healed severe injury. I think it looks like a prosthetic. I wondered why an animal like Frank would be trafficked all the way to Egypt, besides being an exotic pet to show off wealth and power--his ability to make it rain is certainly something I can see being useful. Unfortunately, it is very difficult to find weather records of Egypt during the 20s, so I was unable to come up with an exact location for his imprisonment, but there *was* a revolution going on at the time.
> 
> A note on Tina's musing during Newt's dance--I write bisexual-favoring-women Tina. 
> 
> I have had an absolutely hellish time trying to research traditional and early 20th century Indian music. Not just for the sake of the Runespoor, either. Unable to date any of the older songs, for now imagine Newt playing/singing one of the following;  
> https://youtu.be/tXDKG1D_8hY  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xt6L02Kuoq0
> 
> Or you can imagine him singing Tunak Tunak Tun; I am incapable of stopping you. Do what you want.
> 
> S’vivon: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7y0Z3YpqEdw
> 
> Sarah Good was one of the women put on trial during the Salem Witch Trials. Unlike Mercy Lewis and Deliverance Dane, Good was executed. Tituba was a South American native who was kidnapped and sold into slavery during her childhood, and eventually wound up in Boston—she was one of the first people accused of witchcraft during the Salem Witch Trails, but lied in order to have her life spared. What became of her afterward is unknown.
> 
> The girls sweeten their moonshine with lemonade because they appeared to have had lemonade at dinner in the film. Except Queenie, who had milk (still wondering about that).
> 
> Billy Murray was a popular American singer during the 1910s and 1920s. He's a favorite of mine and had many lovely duets with Ada Jones.


End file.
